


8 Ways To Say I Love You

by NerdsbianHokie



Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-26
Updated: 2014-12-26
Packaged: 2018-03-03 15:04:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2855126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NerdsbianHokie/pseuds/NerdsbianHokie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1. Spit it into her voicemail</p>
            </blockquote>





	8 Ways To Say I Love You

_8 Ways To Say I Love You_

_1\. Spit it into her voicemail, a little slurred and sounding like the shot whiskey you downed for courage. Feel as ashamed as you do walking into work in last night’s clothes. Wake up cringing for days, waiting for her to mention it._

You glance up as Leena walks into the sitting room, then quickly look down as your eyes meet hers.

You can still feel the way the words had slipped and slid off of your tongue the night before, each syllable coated by the shots who’s glasses were still lined in front of you.

Now, you feel the regret the alcohol had freed you from.  Leena hadn’t said a thing about it when you had stumbled home last night, and has yet to bring it up this morning.

You jump slightly when a muffin is placed on your plate.  Leena’s hand trails up your arm and across your shoulders as she walks behind you.

You look up at her.

You fall for her even more in the way she’s smiling down at you.

 

_2\. Sigh it into her mouth, wedged in between teeth and tongues. Don’t even let your lips move when you say it, ever so lightly, into the air. Maybe it was just an exhalation of ecstasy._

You can’t believe this is happening.  She is so close, so fraking close.  You can smell the flour and butter from the cookies in the oven as she brings her hand to your cheek.  You can see the swirls and rhythms in her eyes, and wonder if that is what she sees all the time.

You feel her breath on your lips.

Then, nothing exists but her, and the words escape.

She tenses, her spine straighter, her lips stiffer.

You bring your hand up to mirror hers.  She relaxes again as you rub her cheek.

 

_3\. Buy her flowers. Buy her chocolate. Buy her a teddy bear, because that’s what every romantic comedy has taught you. Take her out to a nice restaurant where neither of you feel comfortable and spend the whole night clearing your throat and tugging at your tie. Feel like your actions are more suited to a proposal than the simple confession of something you’ve always known._

You spend half of the dinner wishing you had gotten her something better, something fitting a woman like her.

Her, in that blue sun dress and easy smile.  Her, with her fingers tracing patterns on the inside of your wrist.  Her, and her ability to make you forget the odd looks you keep getting.

She reaches over and straightens your tie.  You reach up and grab her hand, threading your fingers together.

Your chest grows heavy as you look at her.

You’ve known the truth, told yourself, unwillingly told her, but the words still catch in your throat.

 

_4\. Whisper it into her hair in the middle of the night, after you’ve counted the space between her breaths and are certain she’s asleep. Shut your eyes quickly when she shifts toward you in askance. Maybe you were just sleep whispering._

You have always loved Leena’s hair.  The way the light brings out so many colors.  The way the curls bounce every time she moves.

Now you know how it feels against your cheek as her breaths even  on your skin, her movements still against you.

Your words, barely loud enough to be heard, slip into her curls.

She moves closer.  Her arms are tighter around your waist.  Her eyelids flutter against your neck.

You close your eyes and focus on  keeping your body still, your breathing light.

 

_5\. Blurt it out in the middle of an impromptu dance party in the kitchen, as clumsy as your two left feet. When time seems to freeze, hastily tack on “in that shirt” or “when you make your award-winning meatballs” or, if you are feeling particularly brave, “when we do this.” Resume dancing and pretend you don’t feel her eyes on you the rest of the night._

She freezes.  She stares at you, her eyes wide, her lips parted slightly.

You force out something about her cooking, and her pies, and how you are so glad Pete is on a snag, so you’ll get more than one piece.

The corners of her mouth tug upwards.  She leans forwards to press a kiss to your cheek.  She grabs your hands and begins to dance again.

She knows.

You know that she knows.

She knows that you know that she knows.

You still ignore the way she watches you until you both retreat to bed.

 

_6\. Write her a letter in which the amount of circumnavigating and angst could rival Mr. Darcy’s. Debate where to leave it all day – on her pillow? In her coat pocket? Throw it away in frustration, conveniently leaving it face up in the trashcan, her name scrawled on the front in your sloppy handwriting. Let her wonder if you meant it._

You stare at the trash can, and force yourself to not dig through it.

The letter for her is gone.  You had not been sure if you wanted her to read it, but now you are sure.

You want to take it back.  You want to rip it to shreds then burn the pieces.

You have never been good with words. You can manipulate codes with no problem.  You can assemble devices with minimal components.

But words.

The words that pour onto the page feel overworked and clichéd, but they are as close to the feelings that fill you every time you see her as you can get.  You can’t quite describe how your chest constricts, or your mind blanks.

You had done your best, though, and are sure you ruined everything.

You take a deep breath and force your legs to walk to the fridge.  You pull out something – anything – you aren’t sure what – but when you turn to put it on the counter, she is watching you from the doorway.

She walks up to you with her stupid smile and presses a kiss to your cheek as she picks up what you had taken out of the fridge.

Apparently, raw chicken is not something you should eat.

 

_7\. Wait until something terrible has happened and you can’t not tell her anymore. Wait until she almost gets hit by a car crossing Wabash against the light and after you are done cursing at the shit-for-brains cab drivers in this city, realize you are actually just terrified of living without her. Tell her with your hands shaking._

Your hands shake.

Your entire body shakes.

Not even the arm – you aren’t entirely sure who’s – that pulls you into a warm body stops the shaking.

You stare at her.

She stares back.

You say it, the words ripping out of your throat.

“I love you.”

 

_8\. Say it deliberately, your tongue a springboard for every syllable. Over coffee, brushing your teeth side-by-side, as you turn off the light to go to sleep – it doesn’t matter where. Do not adorn it with extra words like “I think” or “I might.” Do not sigh heavily as if admitting it were a burden instead of the most joyous thing you’ve ever done. Look her in the eyes and pray, heart thumping wildly, that she will turn to you and say, “I love you too.”_

The light streams through her. 

Her voice floats through the air.

She is there, but not.

She smiles at you as you tell her.

You smile, tears – the first since it had happened – roll free as she replies.

“I love you too, Claudia.”

— 

Poem by R. McKinley [X](http://thoughtcatalog.com/r-mckinley/2012/12/8-ways-to-say-i-love-you/)

 


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